


Fic: If I Could Be with You (One Hour Tonight) - Patrick/Greta, PG

by tuesdaysgone



Category: Bandom, Fall Out Boy
Genre: Alternate Universe - 1920s, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-02-19
Updated: 2010-02-19
Packaged: 2017-10-18 09:00:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,216
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/187196
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tuesdaysgone/pseuds/tuesdaysgone
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sometimes he's by himself.  She likes when he's by himself, because then she can pretend she's got enough moxie to talk to him.  She hasn't, not yet, making small talk with the counter patrons instead and keeping one eye on the level of his coffee.  But Greta's not a quitter.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Fic: If I Could Be with You (One Hour Tonight) - Patrick/Greta, PG

  
This is 2200 words of Patrick/Greta Roaring 20's AU, very PG and only very slightly dressed up from comment!fic. Also not betaed. Oh yes.

Picture the Roaring 20s, and a waitress in a tiny little all-night diner. She's not poor, but she's certainly not doing more than scraping by. Luckily, she's just enjoying life in Chicago, the theaters her usher friends can sneak her into to see the latest musical revue or movie, the gourmet food her roommate Darren sneaks out of the kitchen of the restaurant where he works, the tiny galleries on side streets where she peeks in the windows and watches rich people buy pretty things.

She's got a lot of regulars who straggle in at all hours of the day or night. Policemen, shopgirls, factory workers, you name it. But her favorite is the boy in the fedora who comes in late, late at night when the speakeasies start spitting out their inhabitants. Sometimes he's got friends with him, a slight, dark-haired boy who sings more than he talks, another brunette with a wide, sharp smile and shadowed eyes. She listens to them as they chatter over coffee and eggs, and she's not sure, but she thinks he's a musician.

Sometimes he's by himself. She likes when he's by himself, because then she can pretend she's got enough moxie to talk to him. She hasn't, not yet, making small talk with the counter patrons instead and keeping one eye on the level of his coffee. But Greta's not a quitter.

The thing is, Greta's sweetfaced and convincing and really devious. It's how she ended up with a room in the boarding house where Darren lives, which isn't supposed to accept single girls. The landlady's convinced Greta's Darren's sister, and he likes to be able to keep an eye on her so she's not at the mercy of the big city. It's also how she convinces the counter girl at Marshall Field's to hold oh-so-slightly damaged merchandise for her till her next paycheck. Otherwise she'd never be able to keep herself in gloves and little pretty sparkly pins. Of course, she's pretty sure the counter girl - Ashlee, her name is - isn't so much hoodwinked as she is sympathetic.

So, one night when the Fedora Guy is by himself, she uses the diversion of a fire engine roaring down the street to the apartment building across the way to nudge a few papers that have spilled out of Fedora Guy's briefcase under the edge of the booth. She's just curious. She breathlessly retrieves them when her shift is over, but her manager herds her out the door so fast (she knows, though he's never so much as breathed a word to confirm or deny, that he's storing hooch in the back room for some bootlegger friends of his) that she doesn't have a chance to look at them till she gets home.

She feels a little bad when she does. It's hand-written sheet music, and he's sure to miss it soon.

A tiny smile creeps across her face. Clearly, she's going to have to return this to him.

Greta doesn't get a chance to give the papers back for several days, because Fedora Guy's not on his usual schedule, and Greta's extra frustrated because Darren sprained his wrist and she's picking up extra shifts to help him cover his rent till he can go back to work.

It's at the end of her dinner shift one night when, while hanging up her apron on a peg in the galley, she sees him walk by the wide front windows. She mutters an excuse to Bob, her boss, grabs her bag, and dashes outside, scanning the streets for his familiar figure. It's dark, and the clubs are all opening as the restaurants close. He turns down a short alley and pulls open a nondescript metal door that looks like the side door to the tailor shop occupying the storefront, disappearing inside.

When she gets close enough to the door, she sees a small brass plate screwed to the door right above the keyhole. In tarnished letters, it reads "Angels and Kings."

Greta goes inside, of course. She not really dressed for a night on the town, but she's gotten this far, she can't stop now! The bouncer at the door just looks her up and down with a blue-eyed, singularly unimpressed look and taps his toe impatiently (white shoes, seriously, what was he thinking?). She raises an eyebrow at him, shoves a few curls off of her neck, and asks sweetly where the ladies' lounge is.

Once inside the tiny ladies' room, she whips a few supplies out of her bag and does what she can to repair the damage of an eight-hour shift. Her hair is pretty much a lost cause. She refuses to bob it, even if that is the favored fashion, so she just twists as many of the curly tendrils as she can capture into a knot on the back of her head and dots a sparing amount of her precious perfume onto her wrists and neck.

When the petite but leggy brunette enters the room and flashes her a cheerful smile, Greta has to look twice before she realizes it's Ashlee, the Marshall Field's counter girl. She's sure Ashlee's hair was red just last week, and wonders how she gets away with it at work.

"Hi!" Ashlee chirps. "I recognize you from the store. I haven't seen you here before!"

"I haven't been here before," Greta hedges, biting her lip to keep from spilling out the ridiculous truth of 'I followed a man in here'. "You're Ashlee, right? I'm Greta."

Ashlee settles onto the stool next to her, pulling out a tiny compact and dabbing delicately at several areas of her already-flawless-looking makeup before fluffing up her bangs and swiveling to look more closely at Greta. It goes on for a moment past comfortable, then she smiles. "The boys are gonna love you," she declares. "Come have a drink with me."

Greta's not sure if the boys love her, but they sure love Ashlee. The bartender - Fedora Guy's friend with the wicked smile - hovers close, leaning on his elbows and telling wildly inappropriate jokes. Ashlee just laughs and pushes half the drinks that arrive at her elbow in Greta's direction. When the jazz trio takes the stage a while later, Greta stares. Fedora Guy's at the piano, the erstwhile bouncer sliding in behind the drums and the other brunette from the diner on bass. And they're good. So good, in fact, that Greta can't concentrate on anything else for a while. She startles a bit when they swing from a standard into the song she's got on sheet music in her bag - the song she's been humming all week, that she can't help but sing along to now. Ashlee cocks her head to listen, then leans in. "You've got a killer voice," she says in Greta's ear, and Greta blushes.

By the end of the second set, Ashlee and Greta are both singing along, the bartender - Pete - perched on the bar top next to Ashlee and tapping along with the bass beat. The trio wanders over after they close their set. "Backup singers!" crows the bassist (who'd also been the pianist and the drummer at points of the performance). He kisses Ashlee's hand, then Greta's for good measure.

"Brendon," Ashlee remonstrates, and he laughs.

"Should I have waited for an introduction?"

"Probably," says Greta, her lips quirking. "Better late than never, I suppose. I'm Greta."

"Heavenly Greta," Brendon repeats with an extravagant bow. "And the lovely Ashlee. Excuse me while I see where my drink is."

"Your drink's behind the bar, where else?" Pete chimes in from where he's talking to Fedora Guy. "Do I look like a bartender or something?"

"Whatever you say, Boss," Brendon replies. Boss, Greta thinks. Hm. And yes, she can see it now, the proprietary ease. The...and he's caught her staring. Drat.

"Greta," Pete says. "Patrick here says we know you. You work at the Viking Diner, don't you?" She bites her lip and nods, and he beams and tugs Patrick closer, offering her his hand with a flourish. "You are a doll. I'm so sorry I didn't recognize you before." She smiles back, but before she can say anything there's a rather alarming crash from behind the bar and Pete hollers, "Brendon!" and scurries away, leaving Greta alone with Fedora - with _Patrick_.

This was her original plan, yes, but now that she's actually this close to him she's just a little - well, tipsy is what she is, but she's also sort of transfixed by the bright color of his eyes up close, the silky texture of the reddish hair framing his face. His mouth. Which is moving, because he's talking to her. She snaps back into the conversation.

"...never seen you in here. But I guess you're usually working. Night off?"

He smiles and shifts a little, propping an elbow on the bar in a comfortable lean. Patrick's not tall, but neither is she, and she's still perched on the barstool, so she slips off so he doesn't have to look up at her, or shout. When Brendon reappears and tucks himself between Greta and Ashlee, she takes a step closer. "I picked up some swing shifts this week," she replies. "But you haven't been in your usual time either, so maybe you didn't notice - not that you would...." She trails off.

"I would," he says. Her eyes fly up to meet his. She can't quite read his tone, but her stomach flips anyway.

She panics; it's the only explanation for blurting out, "I followed you here tonight." She turns crimson, and adds quickly, "Because I have something for you. Of yours, that is." She reaches for her bag and fumbles for the sheets of staff paper, holding them out.

Patrick's eyes light up when he sees what she's holding. "Oh, I was sure I'd lost those!"

"Didn't seem to bother you much tonight," Greta replies with a tiny smile. "I...hope you don't mind that I read it, but I sure liked hearing it played."

"Are you a musician?" he asks, and she nods.

"Piano mostly. And singing," she adds with a little nod in Ashlee's direction. She offers the papers again, and this time Patrick reaches out to take them. His fingers slide over hers - deliberately, she's sure, and her breath catches a little. He straightens to tuck the papers away into the breast pocket of his jacket, and when he leans back up against the bar, his arm's a little closer to her shoulder, pianist's fingers curving delicately around the back of her arm.

They're both silent for a moment as a sudden burst of laughter from the group at the end of the bar rises above the general hubbub of the room. Patrick's posture is easy, but when he says suddenly, "I'm glad you followed me," he flushes a little. There's really no mistaking his tone this time, or maybe it's the gentle slide of his fingertips against her skin making her brave. Making her crazy. She presses her own fingers lightly against his lapel - not pushing him away, just completing the circuit.

"You are?"

"I am," he replies. "Because I've wanted to talk to you for months and didn't know how to start. And because this place is about to close, and it means I can walk you home."

"It does," she agrees, a teasing little grin covering the exhilarated swooping in her chest.

And after a little while and a few conversations more, he does, but not before Ashlee, Brendon and Pete have all insisted she come back on her next night off. They're both quiet as they weave through the other late-night stragglers, sneaking glances at one another as the moonlight bounces fading beams off of the puddles and the plate glass around them. Patrick's arm is warm and solid under Greta's hand.

When they climb the stone steps to the little side door of her boarding house, Patrick steps closer - he needs to, it's just a tiny covered stoop - and his hand curves around her hip to hold her steady. He's looking at her mouth. "How fresh would I be if I - " She reaches up and taps his hat brim out of the way, cutting him off with a kiss. He makes a surprised noise into her mouth, but pulls her closer, free hand cupping her jaw.

He leaves his hand there when he finally pulls back, thumb smoothing over her cheekbone. "I should really go inside," she says unenthusiastically.

It's too dark to really see his face, but there's a smile in his voice when he answers, "As long as I get to see you tomorrow."

She tilts her head to look at the sinking moon. "More like today."

"Even better." He presses his thumb gently against her lips before his hand falls away. "Goodnight, Greta."

"Goodnight," she whispers back, reaching for the door handle. As she eases the door closed, she can hear him whistling in time with his footsteps on the stone stairs.

She's never going to get that song out of her head now, but she doesn't think she minds.


End file.
